


You Turned a Disaster into a Dream

by smoothsailing



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, I'm terrible at tagging, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, g and sasch live together in monte carlo, skype sex? is that a thing? it is now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 20:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16667812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothsailing/pseuds/smoothsailing
Summary: Grigor's alone in Monte Carlo while Sascha's in London, defending his boyfriend's title.





	You Turned a Disaster into a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Sascha defending Grigor's WTFs title had me in my feelings so I had to write about this.
> 
> Title from "More Than Words" by Little Mix #streamLM5 #shamelesspromoformygirls

Grigor trudges up the stairs after his workout, feeling especially shitty. He’d done four miles on Sascha's best friend in their basement—the stationary bike—and really just needs a shower. He’s in a better place about the injury, honestly, has made his peace with it. Just doing his best to get back in the game as soon as possible now—been hanging out at the courts quite a bit and actually practiced yesterday. So, Grigor’s in high spirits, getting better, progressing, you know… for the most part.

But  _today_  is a different story. Grigor’s just feeling a little grouchy, got an edge to his thoughts that he’s only recently discovered he feels when Sascha leaves to go to tournaments without him; especially a tournament where he’s the defending champion. He’s happy Sascha’s in the final, but it’s fucking irritating him to be left at home when  _he_  should be there too.

That’s why, after his shower, when he plops down on the couch and starts scrolling through his Twitter feed, the quotes from Sascha’s presser yesterday kind of rub him the wrong way.

‘Getting a break from that guy is just a weight off your shoulders.’ Grigor scoffs and rolls his eyes.  _Oh okay._

He keeps scrolling and sees yet another. ‘Just getting a break from that guy. I just feel like I can really be myself out there.’  _Whatever._

Too annoyed to stop himself, he closes Twitter and punches out a text to Sascha, wishing he still had a flip phone or something so he could realize his frustrations in the click of the buttons.

_Ur hilarious asshole. don’t quit ur day job. 2:24 PM._  
  


He tosses his phone to the other side of the couch and starts flinging pillows around, looking for the elusive fucking remote, just trying to watch some Netflix. He’s in such a bad mood Grigor wonders if he should skip TV and go straight to bed. Least he can do is nap here and forget about this, whatever.

Huffing out a breath, he heaves himself off the couch and drags his feet towards the stairs, not even bothering to grab his phone. Nap it is. When he gets to their room, he climbs onto the bed and gets under the covers, snatching Sascha’s pillow and giving it a vigorous fluff before he stuffs it under his head. 

Grigor is fully aware Sascha was only kidding. He knows the deal, that’s their thing—chirping each other to the media. He  _knows_ that, and it’s fine. But _, fuck_ , he’s fucking dying here, hates not being there. And he  _misses_  Sascha like hell when he’s away, God—and doesn’t like hearing Sascha suggest that he feels the opposite, even if he knows that’s stupid.  _Of course_  Sascha misses him too. Grigor’s just feeling salty, needs to nap it off. He turns over on his back, adjusts so his shoulder is comfortable, and stares up at the ceiling for a bit. He tries to think calming thoughts yet Sascha’s the only thing on his mind. He still ends up falling into a seemingly restful sleep.

\--

He wakes some time later and groans, stretches his arms over his head, feeling much better—agitation from earlier gone. He blows out a breath and shakes his head thinking of how crazy he was being, getting pissy at Sascha for some shit he rambled off to the media for Christ’s sake. He needs to get out of the house. 

But first, he goes for another shower to knock the sleep off, takes his time with it. He even washes his face with a couple of the fifteen some-odd bottles of scrubs and cleansers Sascha’s got lining the shelf here, choosing the ones he always sees him using. He’s kissed and nuzzled Sascha’s face a thousand times after he uses this shit and the familiar, minty smell settles something inside him, but stirs something else.  _God_ , he misses Sascha. 

He works the shampoo into his hair, imagines Sascha’s strong hands on his scalp instead of his own, and contemplates what he wants to get for dinner as he rinses it out. His hair is getting longer now, after he decided to completely shave it off not too long ago. He can actually grab some of it through his fingers. He still doesn’t know what he was thinking.

As he’s pulling on some clothes after, he decides he’ll get junk food for dinner. He likes to get it when Sascha isn’t around because he always gives Grigor grief about “eating that greasy shit.” He decides he’ll go to the grocery store and get some healthy stuff too, to try and appease Sascha even though he’s not actually here to catch him cheating on their diet.

He chuckles to himself, smiling fondly—Sascha’s something else, making him better from miles away—and heads downstairs to get his phone. It’s 5:30, so he’s got plenty of time before the match starts. He’s also got two texts from Sascha. 

‘ _Ah c’mon, babe._ ’  _3:31._

_‘Still pretending to be mad?’ 4:45._

Oh, fuck him, the smug bastard. Like Grigor’s incapable of being mad,  _yeah right_. He types out,  _not pretending,_ and hits send even though he isn’t really mad anymore. The least he can do is make Sascha work for it a little, after that comment. Grigor heads out the door, off to run some errands and pick up a delicious, greasy cheeseburger before going home to catch the final.

\--

Grigor makes it back by the middle of the first set to find that things are not going so bad— for once, Sascha doesn’t look half asleep. His passes are connecting. Novak can’t get a volley past him, and there aren’t many holes in Sascha’s court coverage… Grigor’s impressed. 

Few minutes later, Sascha gets the first break, and holds his serve. The first set is his, and Grigor is so relieved. After the trade of breaks to start the second, Sascha looks composed, but Grigor is still as nervous as ever. This is _Novak_ , he thinks. He never goes away easy, the annoying fuck. He’s holding serve in next to time and gets to 30-all on every one of Sascha’s service games. This can’t possibly end well. Turns out he was wrong. It ends on yet another beautiful backhand pass, and then Sascha’s lying on the court. _Copycat_ , Grigor mumbles, yet he can’t help but smile. He won’t even pretend to be mad at Sascha after this; he knows  _that_  deserves forgiveness. He switches to Netflix, decides on F.R.I.E.N.D.S. before bed to pass the time until Sascha texts him that he’s back at the hotel.

_couldnt come up with your own celebration? 8:35 PM.  
congrats btw. 8:37 PM_

A couple episodes later, he hears his phone vibrate on the coffee table and snatches it up quickly. It’s Sascha, of course. 

‘ _shut up. are you jealous?_ ’  _10:26 PM._

Grigor replies,  _I did it first, so definitely not, but whatever helps you sleep at night_. Then,  _back at the hotel?_

His phone vibrates again immediately.  _‘yeah, about to go out with the team. I’ll talk to you in the morning.’_

Grigor’s face falls a little—he was hoping Sascha would want to talk before bed. Maybe he’s too busy celebrating without Grigor. He types out,  _ok Sascha, enjoy it. dont forget to get some sleep._

He doesn’t get anything in response, so he switches off the TV and makes his way upstairs to get ready for bed himself. Stripped down to only his boxers, he hops into bed and settles in with a book he’s been trying to get through. It’s decent—some cheesy romantic novel he borrowed from David a month or so ago.

Grigor feels the buzz of his phone again and perks up—it’s Sascha again.

_‘hey wanna skype?’ 10:53._  He must be feeling guilty about pissing Grigor off earlier and then not even wanting to talk afterwards.

He reaches for his laptop on the floor and types out a ‘ _sure,’_  chuckling to himself. When the window pops up though, his laughter dies, and he sucks in a breath, mouth dropping open slightly at the sight of him.

He’s got the laptop on the bed at his side, far enough away that Grigor’s got a good view of  _everything_. Of Sascha just lying there in those fucking obscene black shorts he wears, propped halfway up on a pillow, with the knee closest to the camera pulled up towards him. He’s got his head turned, looking over at Grigor, cheeks flushed, and he’s breathing kind of hard. Jesus, what’s he been doing?

“Hey Sasch, you been working hard over there, babe?” Grigor asks, brow creasing as he takes in the flush of Sascha’s chest and neck and the look on his face.

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Something like that. What you doing there?” he asks, nodding towards the book on Grigor’s chest.

“Just reading. I thought you were going out? Surely you’re not heading to bed this early after the big win?” Grigor says.

“Oh, I’m not, I just need to take it in. I’m trying to enjoy this without you, but I  _can’t_ …” he trails off, huffing out a breath, and something clicks in Grigor’s head. He takes in Sascha’s appearance again—flushed all over, breathing harsh. Oh my god, how did he not catch on sooner? Sascha’s excited _all right_ , just not about the match, apparently.

“ _Ooooh oookay_ ,” Grigor says, drawing out the words, cheeks rising in the smuggest grin he can manage. He tosses his book aside—this is about to get good. “I see what this is.  _You’re_  jerking it and you can’t get the job done without me, huh?” He stabs his finger in Sascha’s direction for emphasis.

Sascha just groans in response, cheeks getting redder, and lets his head fall back on the pillow. He runs a hand though his hair before he brings it down to rub up and down his thigh tensely, like he’s truly on edge. Grigor tracks the motion of his hand, feels the warmth start to pool in his belly and a shiver run down his spine at the sight of Sascha like this. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he repeats. “C’mon, Grigor.” He turns his head, scorching eyes focused on him now. “Help me out here,” he moans on, reaching between his legs to fist himself through his shorts. God, he’s so fucking hot, and Grigor’s so easy for this, but he’s gotta put up a little resistance here. Sascha wasn’t even taking him seriously earlier—not that he should have really, but damn... 

Time to make him eat his words, Grigor thinks, and laughs a little, trying to focus on speaking coherently.

“Oh, me?” he asks innocently, gesturing to himself with a hand on his chest before continuing, “But I thought you were feeling so great in my absence, _Alexander_? What was that you said?” Sascha lets his leg drop down and Grigor can see that he’s got his dick in his hand now, fully hard, and  _oh god_ , Grigor’s losing track of his argument here. “‘Like a weight has been lifted off your, uh, shoulders…?” he trails off, losing his momentum, and swallows hard.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Grigor, give it up—you know I didn’t mean that,” he whines, exasperated with this pretense of anger Grigor’s got going. “And you’re not even—” he swallows, getting lost in his own hand working his cock, stroking lazily up and down, while Grigor watches, “—mad about that. C’mon, you know I always want you with me. Don’t make me beg.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grigor groans out, quickly moving the laptop over to the pillow next to him, adjusting his own half-hard dick in his boxers, the little noises Sascha’s making absolutely killing him. This is another reason why he doesn’t like being fucking left at home.

He turns over on his side facing Sascha and decides to give him exactly what he knows he wants—appreciation for this fucking show he’s putting on.

“What do you want, Sasch? For me to tell you how fucking hot you look? Because, my god, you’re  _ridiculous_  right now,” he says, lowering his voice, and Sascha groans, tilting his head back, and speeds his hand on his dick. He knows he’s got Grigor in the game now.

Grigor continues, words spilling out of his mouth, encouraged by the reaction he’s getting from Sascha. “God, look at you. So fucking hot for this. Hot for me watching you, huh? Making it so good for me, Sasch—I’ll be thinking about this for the rest of my life, about how you couldn’t get off without me. Needed me to see you.” 

Sascha’s so into it, eyes screwed shut, panting hard. He rolls his hips up into his fist, meeting the tight strokes he got going. Then he drags his other hand up his abs to his chest, glistening with sweat now from his exertions, and starts tweaking his nipples. He pinches one, then the other, and the noises coming out of his mouth, little gasps and groans and chants of ‘oh, oh,’ over and over. _Holy fucking shit_ , this is going to put Grigor in his grave, hotter than any porn he could ever dream up himself. Sascha brings his knee up again like he can’t help it, blocking Grigor’s view.

“Hey, drop it—can’t see,” Grigor says immediately, not wanting to miss single a fucking second of this. He runs the heel of his hand down the length his dick, which is practically at full attention by now. God, he wishes he were there, wishes he could have Sascha inside him.

Sascha puts his leg back down, digs his heels into the mattress, letting out little grunts that make Grigor’s cock twitch against his hand.

“Fuck, Sasch. Look at me, baby,” Grigor says, voice thick and gravelly with arousal. Sascha lowers his hips to the bed, but doesn’t still the movement of his hands. He lets his head fall to the side, and Grigor licks his lips. 

Sascha’s eyes are blown black, his mouth parted, so gone for this. And Grigor knows Sascha’s close so he keeps it up. “Watch me watch you. That’s what you want, right? Fuck, you’re so gorgeous, Sascha. Wish I could’ve been there to watch you today. You played so fucking well. Handed Novak his ass. Defending my title for me like the good boy that you are. Wish I could get my hands on you, get your dick in me—know that’s  _really_  what you want,” Grigor groans, and that does it.

Sascha moans out, “Grigor—oh _God_ ,” and then he’s coming in hot spurts all over his abs, breathing ragged.

“Yeah, just like that, babe. Bet they can hear you next door.” Sascha just gets louder at that, jacking himself through his orgasm, and Grigor whines and quickly grabs the base of his dick through his boxers, trying to keep from cashing in before he’s even properly gotten a hand on himself. 

He waits as patiently as he can while Sascha gathers himself, slows his breathing. When he finally opens his eyes, he looks straight at Grigor and nods towards his dick straining against the fabric. “Your turn, Grigor. Let me see you.”

“You got it.” Grigor tugs his boxers down quickly, freeing himself, as he rolls to his back. “Won’t last,  _ah_ —” Grigor pauses, whining when his hand finally makes skin-on-skin contact with his dick, feels so good. “—too long.  _Fuck_. Got me so hot, Sascha,” Grigor pants.

He sees Sascha lean forward, watching him intently, not even bothering to tuck himself back into his shorts yet. “Fuck yeah, you’re close, huh? I was lying here earlier, Grigor, trying to think of you, pretend it was your hand on me, but it wasn’t enough…Fucking  _needed_   _you_ , Grigor. Bet you’d need me too. When’s the last time you came without me, huh?” he asks, voice low, filthy. The show’s not over—he’s still driving Grigor insane, just with his words now.

Grigor’s got a frantic rhythm going, riding the edge, about half a second from losing it. Sascha knows that, too, says, “God, Grigor, you look so good. C’mon—give it up. Come for me, baby,” and it pushes him over the edge.

“Sascha, oh, _fuck_ ,” he groans, biting down on his bottom lip, stifling a moan as he spills over his fist, coming so hard he sees spots.

“Holy fucking shit,” he gasps, breathing harsh, and turns his head to look at Sascha. He reaches his hand out and lets it fall towards the laptop, towards Sascha.

Sascha reaches forward and touches the screen in return, and Grigor closes his eyes and pretends he can feel it on his skin. “Miss you, Grigor,” he breathes out. “Always wish you were here with me, you know that,” he says, repeating his words from earlier.

“I know, Sascha. I know. I miss you, too,” Grigor responds, still trying to catch his breath. He feels the truth of that resonate in his gut, in how big the bed feels without Sascha beside him. “ _And_  I’m offended you didn’t consult me from the get-go here.”

“Don’t know what I was thinking. You usin’ my pillow?” Sascha asks with a smirk, making eyes behind Grigor’s head.

“Yeah… Sucks when you’re not home,” Grigor mumbles, voice small.

“Hey, I’ll meet you back here tomorrow night, eh?” he asks, sounding hopeful. “I’ll be home before you know it,” he adds, trying to comfort him, and yawns sleepily.

“I can get behind that,” Grigor says, smiling softly, and Sascha just grins.

“I bet you can,” he says. “Love you, G.”

“Love you, too, Sasch,” he responds, and shuts off the light.

“G’night. Can’t wait to see you”, Sascha whispers.

“Go celebrate, champ”, Grigor replies and shuts his computer off.

He can't stop smiling. 

 


End file.
